



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
















Coleridge at 26 


i 










The Western Series of English and 


American Classics 


The 

Rime of the Ancient 
Mariner 

BY 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

11 

AND 

Sohrab and Rustum 

BY 

MATTHEW ARNOLD 

Edited By 

Lucile G AFFORD, PH. D. 

The University of Chicago 


THE HARLOW PUBLISHING COMPANY 
Oklahoma City 
1930 








Pf?44^ 

' 1^30 


Copyright, 1930, by 
Harlow Publishing Co. 


JAN 31 193! 

©CIA 33488 


cO 

i 

l 

r*r 


To 

M. L. L. 





PREFATORY NOTE 

This little volume brings together two of the 
longer English poems usually put on the reading lists 
for high school students. The poems are vital ex¬ 
amples of English narrative verse and should be in¬ 
teresting to young students as illustrating distinctly 
different types of creative writing. It is hoped that 
the study of them will stimulate further search into 
the forms of poetry in the very rich field of English 
literature. 

In the case of both poems the text used is that 
which received the author’s approval and final revi¬ 
sion; the Ancient Mariner based on the edition of 
1829, Sohrab and Rnstum on the text of the 1878 
issue of Arnold’s poems. 


L. G. 



CONTENTS 


Sketch of Coleridge_ xi 

Comment on the Ancient Mariner_ xv 

Questions and Study Helps- xiii 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner__1-35 

Sketch of Matthew Arnold_ 39 

Comment on Sohrab and Rustum- 42 

Topics and Questions for Discussion- 46 

Sohrab and Rustum-48-83 

Suggestions to Teachers- 84 












Coleridge Cottage, Nether Stowey 





SKETCH OF COLERIDGE 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the youngest of thir¬ 
teen children, was born at Ottery St. Mary, in Dev¬ 
onshire, October 21, 1772. Little is known of his 
childhood and youth except what is gained from 
some of his letters late in life. One rather import¬ 
ant fact is that his father was a vicar, for that 
implies a library and respect for learning and ac¬ 
counts at least in part for the boy’s later tastes. 
His first teacher was his father, from whose care 
the child went at six to the local grammar school. 
When he was about nine his father died, and the 
boy was sent away to a public charity school in 
London, where he became the friend of another 
poor boy destined to be one of the gentlest 
and quaintest prose writers of his day—Charles 
Lamb. Lamb has made a charming, and quite nat¬ 
urally, slightly exaggerated picture of the preco¬ 
cious fellow Coleridge in his essay “Christ’s Hospital 
Five and Thirty Years Ago.” Even there the appeal 
of his voice was recognized and the philosophic ten¬ 
dency of his mind foreshadowed. 

At nineteen Coleridge entered Jesus College, 
Cambridge, where he studied the traditional sub¬ 
jects. He planned to enter the ministry, probably 
because it promised a way to continued study at 
leisure. But he was not. an all-round scholar; he 
disliked mathematics and pure science, and in lit¬ 
erature turned his attention largely to a study of 
writers of his own day. Toward the end of his 
third year in college he grew distressed over debts 
and depressed with study, and broke away from 
school for a trial of life in London. Soon after he 
enlisted in the army, only to find himself totally 
unable to do the things which that life required, 
and glad after two months to return to the Uni- 
[xi] 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


xii 

versity. At last he left Cambridge in 1794 without 
taking a degree. 

After leaving school his restless mind entered 
upon a series of projects, none of very long endur¬ 
ance or of any vital consequence. At one time he 
planned with his school friend Southey to go to 
America and establish an ideal state in which a 
Utopian life was to give each man his chance to 
develop his highest intellectual ability with the 
least obtrusion of material concern. As a part of 
the ideal scheme the two poets married, and the 
stern business of making a living put an end to the 
dream. 

The young man had counted upon an income from 
poems, the first volume of which, called Juvenile 
Poems, he published soon after his marriage; but 
he found it necessary to do more, and soon tried in 
turn preaching, lecturing and publishing. There 
are eloquent evidences from his admirers as to his 
charm and persuasiveness as a preacher as there 
are of his earlier charm as a conversationalist in 
college where his room was a rendezvous for the 
best thinkers and talkers among the students. This 
faculty he never lost. 

Early in 1797 Coleridge moved into a small cot¬ 
tage in the village of Nether Stowey, in the Quan- 
tock hills where within a month Wordsworth ana 
his sister Dorothy became his neighbors. Friend¬ 
ship grew rapidly between the two poets and each 
wrote and grew under the other’s stimulation. With¬ 
in a year they planned a trip whose expense they 
meant to meet by publishing a joint volume which 
they talked over at length. The plan and its re¬ 
sults have been told in Wordsworth’s now famous 
Preface to their volume, and further in Coleridge’s 
later book The Biographia Literaria . 

This volume, called Lyrical Ballads and published in 


' Sketch of Coleridge xiii 

1798, contained the greatest of Coleridge’s concep¬ 
tions in verse, The Ancient Mariner, and three 
shorter poems. Coleridge remembered a dream told 
him by his friend Cruikshank—“of a skeleton ship 
with figures in it.” Wordsworth added some sug¬ 
gestions from his recent reading of travel literature 
—and the idea grew. But Coleridge’s mind ran far 
ahead of Wordsworth’s with the theme and soon 
they agreed that this poem should be his alone. 
Only a few lines in the completed poem came from 
Wordsworth. 

The Lyrical Ballads marks one of the high spots in 
the history of English literature for in it for the 
first time were expressed completely the ideals 
which the poets who were trying to break away from 
the formalism of the eighteenth century were striv¬ 
ing for in less effectual ways: These ideas they 
summed up in the phrase “a return to nature”— 
by which they meant truthfulness to nature in her 
objective forms and sincerity in expressing the 
heart of man. The Lyrical Ballads does both of 
these things, and has thus become the first great 
achievement of the “romantic movement” which 
characterized the literary effort of the early nine¬ 
teenth century. 

The year following this venture was a happy one 
for the poet friends. Late in the year Coleridge 
came into some money and made a long desired trip 
to Germany to study the new philosophy of trans¬ 
cendentalism developing there under Kant and 
Schelling. This was to be an interest through the 
rest of his life, and the self-appointed career of 
teaching its ideals to England began upon his re¬ 
turn. I Rify 

But the most gloomy chapter in Coleridge’s life 
also began soon after his return to England and 
to his new home in the Lake country. Dampness in 


xiv 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


the climate brought on neuralgia and he began tlu 
fatal custom of taking opium to relieve the pain. 
The next ten years are a dark sequel; the habit 
grew worse steadily and all his efforts in writing, 
editing and lecturing ended in half-success and fi¬ 
nally in failures. Nothing is more pathetic than 
his voluntarily putting himself under the care of 
his friend, Dr. Gilman, who became after 1814 his 
constant guardian. 

Through the twenty years of life left to him he 
continued in his lucid moments to be to a host of 
younger men a prophet and seer leading them into 
the light of the new philosophy. Among his follow¬ 
ers none paid a higher tribute than Thomas Car¬ 
lyle, whose words sum up his greatness to his own 
age, and record him for us: 

.a sublime man; who, alone in those dark 

days had saved his crown of spiritual manhood; 

.The practical intellects of the world did not 

much heed him, or carelessly reckoned him a meta¬ 
physical dreamer. But to the rising spirits of the 
younger generation, he had this dusky sublime char¬ 
acter; and sat there as a kind of Magus, girt in 
mystery and enigma. 

This was the man who dreamed and executed the 
Ancient Mariner. 




COMMENT ON THE ANCIENT MARINER 


The Ancient Mariner may be classified for con¬ 
venience as a long narrative poem, standing be¬ 
tween the brief narration of a single moment and 
the longer record of epic struggles. But it is far 
from being merely a story in verse—good as it 
might be, judged as the tale of a weird experience. 
Through an artistry such as few English poets can 
command Coleridge has in this poem brought us un¬ 
der the unearthly spell of the mariner’s tale and 
made us feel the subtle connection between the 
old sailor’s strange adventure and the experience 
of the human heart. This ability to see beyond the 
mere facts of life into the meaning they have be¬ 
longs to the great poets and dramatists of literature. 
They become interpreters of life and their produc¬ 
tions are demonstrations of the ways of the human 
spirit. 

The poem demands more than a single reading. 
Its details are wonderfully fused into a strikingly 
harmonious whole, yet it is possible to look into its 
elements and find that study only enhances the cen¬ 
tral and single impression. 

First to attract the reader, perhaps, is the story 
itself—the record of happenings. We see the ship 
leave the harbor and begin its wild and incredible 
voyage. Soon we lose a sense of a course such as 
any known mariner ever sailed; we are concerned 
with the vastness of the ocean universe, bounded 
only by the poles and the lines that belt the earth. 
We go south, to be sure, but we meet with ob¬ 
jects nobody else ever saw, and we find our ship con¬ 
trolled by great and elemental spirits whose activ¬ 
ities extend to more than ships and sailors. Finally 
—and much comes before that ending—we get 
back to harbor and to the world of men where an 
[xv] 



xvi 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


old sailor goes about trying to tell men the truth 
he has learned about life. 

This journey has involved the conflict of tremen¬ 
dous spiritual forces, and the poem is a record of 
that, too. The poem gives us a key to this spiritual 
experience in the stanza near the end “He prayeth 
best who loveth best,” but the experience from 
which this summary emerges is too subtle to be 
put adequately into a phrase. We ask questions— 
What was involved in the shooting of the bird? 
What caused it finally to fall from the Mariner’s 
neck? How much had the Guardian Spirit to do 
with his release and how much of it was due to 
the change in his own heart? How does all this re¬ 
late to the soul of man and the facts and forces he 
must meet in daily life? Fortunately we need not 
answer these questions, but they are stimulating to 
think about. 

Then there is the form of the poem. In metrical 
pattern it is indebted to the old ballads; but the 
variations from this pattern attract us on almost 
every page. Coleridge takes the liberties which 
only an artist may with the pattern he has chosen. 
He expands the stanzas by adding single lines, by 
unusual repetitions of word and phrase and whole 
line, by altering the length of the traditional line, 
even by doubling the length of the stanza. He uses 
alliteration with varied effects among the parts; 
he employs internal rhyme as freely as a lyric poet; 
he turns away from the traditional iambic foot of 
the ballad and occasionally employs three kinds of 
foot in one stanza. Finally he uses the diction of 
the old ballad, its simplicity and its directness, and 
he keeps us in the atmosphere of the long-ago by 
these means; but his poem is as richly colored in 
sound quality as it is varied in line order. 

All of this and more goes into making this dream- 



Comment on The Ancient Mariner xvii 


poem one of the great pieces of English Literature 
and brings us back to it with new wonder at each 
re-reading. It is hoped that the notes and ques¬ 
tions attached will help young readers to ask more 
questions and to stimulate attention to more of the 
details of the fashioning of The Ancient Mariner. 


QUESTIONS AND STUDY HELPS 


I. On the basis of The Ancient Mariner try to 
make a definition of a lyrical ballad. 

II. Try to tell the story in one paragraph of 
prose. Why is that difficult? 

III. What human characters come into the poem? 

IV. Mark parts in the poem you think particular¬ 
ly striking in pictorial quality; select one 
for detailed representation and try to visual¬ 
ize it as on a canvas. 

V. Try to fill out the picture of the wedding 
feast. Do you care much for the feast as 
such? 

VI. Try to chart the course of the ship. 

VII. Comment on the function and value of the 
marginal glosses (added by Coleridge in 
later editions). 

VIII. Discuss the diction of the poem. 

IX. Make a study of color words; how large a 
part does color play in the effects of the 
poem? What colors are employed? 

X. Note the points at which Coleridge reminds 
you of the presence of the wedding guest. 

XI. What, finally, seems to you the most artis¬ 
tic feature of the poem? 


[xviii] 


The 

Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


PART THE FIRST 


I 

It is an ancient Mariner , 1 

And he stoppeth one of three. 

‘By thy long gray beard and glittering 
eye, 

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? 

An ancient 
Mariner 
meeteth 
three Gal¬ 
lants bid¬ 
den to a 
wedding- 
feast, and 
detaineth 

II 

The Bridegroom’s doors are opened 
wide, 

And I am next of kin; 

The guests are met, the feast is set: 
May’st hear the merry din.’ 

one. 

Ill 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
‘There was a ship,’ quoth he. 

‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’ 
Eftsoons 2 his hand dropt he. 



x Note how directly the mariner is introduced. Who de¬ 
scribes him here? Notice how in these stanzas the contrast 
is established—of the wedding feast which we hear about 
and which we nearly share as its noises float out to us, 
and of the old mariner on the roadside stopping the guests 
to pour out his tale. 

immediately. It is from two Anglo-Saxon words eft , 
“again,” and sona, “at once,” “soon.” It is used here as 
many archaic words are throughout the poem to suggest an 
earlier time. 


[i] 



2 Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


The Wed¬ 
ding-Guest 
is spell¬ 
bound by 
the eye of 
the old sea¬ 
faring man, 
and con¬ 
strained to 
hear his 
tale. 


IV 

He holds him with his glittering eye—• 
The Wedding-Guest stood still, 

And listens like a three years’ child: 
The Mariner hath his will . 3 

V 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: 

He cannot choose 4 but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 


The Mar¬ 
iner tells 
how the 
ship sailed 
southward 
with a good 
wind and 
fair weath¬ 
er, till it 
reached the 
Line. 


VI 

‘The ship was cheered , 5 the harbour 
cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the lighthouse top. 

VII 

The sun came up upon the left , 6 
Out of the sea came he! 

And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 


3 The full meaning of this stanza is reserved till stanzas 
OXXXIII and CXXXIV when we have come under the 
spell of the old sailor and realize fully how powerful and 
impelling his manner is, and how speech has to him still 
the value of a confession. 

4 Watch for other cases in which Coleridge employs two 

tenses, and see what effect he gains. “Spake” in the next 
line is another old form used to keep the atmosphere. 

6 The story begins; see how much is covered in one stanza. 

6 Which way was the ship going? 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


3 


VIII 

Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon—’ 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his 
breast, 

For he heard the loud bassoon . 1 


IX 

The bride hath paced into the hall, 

Red as a rose is she ; 8 

Nodding their heads before her goes 

The merry minstrelsy. 

The Wed¬ 
ding-Guest 
heareth. the 
bridal 
music; but 
the Mariner 
continueth 
his tale. 

X 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 


XI 

‘And now the Storm-Blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong: 

He struck with his o’ertaking wings, 

And chased us south along. 

The ship 
drawn by a 
storm to¬ 
ward the 
south pole. 

XII 

With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 



And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 

And southward aye we fled . 9 

7 An old wind instrument still used. These lines recall 
us to the immediate scene again. 

8 This is a pure ballad line, as is the last one of the 
stanza. 

9 The added lines and the internal rhymes intensify the 
idea of pursuit. 



4 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


XIII 

And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold: 

And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 

As green as emerald. 


XIV 


The land of 
ice, and of 
fearful 
sounds, 
where no 
living thing 
was to be 
seen. 


And through the drifts the snowy clifts 10 
Did send a dismal sheen: 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken 11 — 
The ice was all between. 


XV 

The ice was here, the ice was there, 
The ice was all around: 

It cracked and growled, and roared and 
howled, 

Like noises in a swound ! 12 


Till a great 
sea-bird, 
called the 
Albatross, 
came 

through the 
snow-fog, 
and was re¬ 
ceived with 
great joy 
and hospi¬ 
tality. 


XVI 

At length did cross an Albatross: 

Thorough 13 the fog it came; 

As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hailed it in God’s name. 


‘"Cliffs—the walls of icebergs towering above them. 
“Drifts” suggest masses of floating mist or clouds, show¬ 
ing the ice walls here and there. 

u An old word still used in Scotland—“to know.” 
™Swoon —This last line makes the noises mentioned 
above seem strange and ghost-like. 

18 01d form of through. See its use: by Shakespeare, no¬ 
tably in A Midsummer Night's Dream. 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


5 


XVII 

It ate the food it ne’er had eat , 14 
And round and round it flew. 

The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 
The helmsman steered us through! 


XVIII 

And a good south wind sprung up be¬ 
hind; 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play, 

Came to the mariners’ hollo! 

XIX 

In mist or cloud, on mast Dr shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke 
white 

Glimmered the white moon-shine.’ 


And lo I the 
Albatross 
proveth a 
bird of good 
omen, and 
followeth 
the ship as 
it returned 
northward 
through fog 
and floating 
ice. 


XX 

'God save thee, ancient Mariner! 

From the fiends, that plague thee 
thus!— 

Why look’st thou so?’—With my cross¬ 
bow 

I shot the Albatross . 15 

14 Pronounced et and good usage till very recent times. 
“A very dramatic moment. The mariner has been lead¬ 
ing up to this revelation, yet putting it off, because telling 
it is a penance hard to make even so long after the event. 
Note how the Guest’s words here suggest the terror he sees 
in the mariner’s face. 


The ancient 
Mariner 
inhospita¬ 
bly killeth 
the pious 
bird of good 
omen. 



PART THE SECOND 


. • 

XXI 

The Sun now rose upon the right : 1 

Out of the sea came he, 

Still hid in mist, and on the left 

Went down into the sea. 

XXII 

And the good south wind still blew 
behind, 

But no sweet bird did follow, 

Nor any day for food or play, 

Came to the mariners’ hollo! 

His ship¬ 
mates cry 
out against 
the ancient 
Mariner, 
for killing 
the bird of 
good. luck. 

XXIII 

And I had done a hellish thing , 2 

And it would work ’em woe: 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 
That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah, wretch! said they, the bird to slay, 
That made the breeze to blow! 

But when 
the fog 
cleared off, 
they justify 
the same, 
and thus 
make them¬ 
selves ac¬ 
complices 
in the 

XXIV 

Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head, 
The glorious Sun uprist: 

Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
That brought the fog and mist. 

’Twas right, said they, such birds to 
slay, 


crime. That bring the fog’ and mist. 

J What direction now? 

2 This whole stanza is an indirect statement of the charge 
the mates brought against the mariner. Their veering, 
half-mad minds are further suggested in the next stanza. 

[6] 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


7 


XXV The fair 

breeze con- 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 8 ™;^® 
The furrow followed free; the Pacific 

We were the first that ever burst saSsTnorth- 


Into that silent sea. 


ward, even 
till it 
reaches the 


XXVI 


Line. 


Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 


’Ttvas sad as sad could be; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea! 


The ship 
hath been 
suddenly 
becalmed. 


XXVII 

All in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody Sun, at noon, 

Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon . 3 4 


XXVIII 

Day after day, day after day, 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

3 ExcelIcnt use of alliteration in these two lines. Note 
how often Coleridge employs this feature of the old ballads. 
The next stanza is more artistic in its use than this one. 
with d’s and s’s blending. 

4 A physical fact; the rarified air made objects stand out 
just as they were. These two stanzas are hardly surpassed 
in literature for the clear-cut picture they present, cf. 11. 
171 - 80 , 199 - 200 , 263 - 71 , 314 - 26 . 



8 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


And the 
Albatross 
begins to b( 
avenged. 


XXIX 

Water, water, everywhere, 5 

And all the boards did shrink; 
Water, water, everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink. 


XXX 

l}he very deep did rot: 0 Christ! 

That ever this should be! 

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 6 
Upon the slimy sea. 

XXXI 

About, about, 7 in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night; 

The water, like a witch’s oils, 

Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

XXXII 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the Spirit that plagued us so; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Con- 
st antlnop oil tan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very 
numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more. 

6 Note other uses of repetition. This stanza has been re¬ 
peated carelessly so often it has lost some of its effect. It 
is full of suggestion if read with the context: cf. stanza 
LIV, where the larger vowel sounds aid in building a sense 
of desolation we miss here. 

6 Note how one gets the feeling for these hideous objects 
where the mariner can give them no names—as if they 
were unnameable. 

7 cf. Macbeth I, iii, 33. 


A spirit had 
followed 
them; one 
of the in¬ 
visible in¬ 
habitants of 
this planet, 
neither de¬ 
parted souls 
nor angels; 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


The ship¬ 
mates in 
their sore 
distress 
would fain 
throw the 
whole guilt 
on the an¬ 
cient Mar¬ 
iner: in sign 
whereof 
they hang 
the dead 
sea-bird 
round his 
neck. 


XXXIII 

And every tongue, through utter 
drought, 

Was withered at the root; 

We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 

XXXIV 

Ah! well-a-day! 8 what evil looks 
Had I from old and young! 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 


8 01d usage, of. “The Eve of St. Agnes,” Stanza XIII. 



PART THE THIRD 


The ancient 
Mariner be- 
holdeth a 
sign in the 
element 
afar off. 


XXXV 

There passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time! a weary time! 

How glazed each weary eye! 

When looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 


XXXVI 

At first it seemed a little speck, 

And then it seemed a mist; 

It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist! 1 

XXXVII 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 

And still it neared and neared: 

As if it dodged a water-sprite, 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 


XXXVI Id 


At its 
nearer ap¬ 
proach, it 
seemeth. 
him to be a 
ship; and. 
at a dear 
ransom 
he freeth 
his speech, 
from the 
bonds of 
thirst. 


With throats unslaked, with black lips 
baked, 

We could nor laugh nor wail; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood 
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, A sail! a sail! 


"Coleridge liere uses a form of the Anglo-Saxon verb 
witan, “to know,” but be evidently means it to be equival¬ 
ent to ncis, an adverb meaning “certainly.” Old ballads 
use these forms iwis and wist carelessly, popularly. 


[10] 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


11 


XXXIX 

With throats unslaked, with black lips 
baked, 

Agape they heard me call: 

Gramercy! they for joy did grin, 2 
And all at once their breath drew in, 

As they were drinking all. 

XL 

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! 

Hither to work us weal; 

Without a breeze, without a tide, 

She steadies with upright keel! 

XLI 

The western wave was all a-flame, 

The day was well-nigh done! 

Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright Sun; 

When that strange shape drove 3 sud¬ 
denly 

Betwixt us and the Sun. 

XLII 

And straight the Sun was flecked with 
bars, 

(Heaven’s Mother send us grace!) 

As if through a dungeon-grate he 
peered 

With broad and burning face. 

i Yery effective word here to suggest faces 
thirst. 

8 A striking effect is gained by this word, 
ture of the sudden image. 


A flash of 
joy. 


And horror 
follows. For 
can it be a 
ship that 
comes on¬ 
ward with¬ 
out wind or 
tide? 


It seemeth 
him but the 
skeleton of 
a ship. 


distorted by 


Get the pic- 



12 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


And its ribs 
are seen as 
bars on the 
face of the 
setting Sun. 
The Spec¬ 
tre-Woman 
and her 
Death- 
mate, and 
no other on 
board the 
skeleton- 
ship. 


Like vessel, 
like crew 1 


Death and 
Life-in- 
Death have 
diced for 
the ship’s 
crew, and 
she (the 
latter) win- 
neth the 
ancient 
Mariner. 


XLIII 

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat 
loud,) 

How fast she nears and nears! 

Are those her sails that glance in the 
Sun, 

Like restless gossameres? 4 

XLIV 

Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
Did peer, as through a grate? 

And is that Woman all her crew? 

Is that a Death? and are there two? 

Is Death that woman’s mate? 

XLV 

Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
Her locks were yellow as gold: 

Her skin was as white as leprosy, 

The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 5 6 
Who thicks man’s blood with cold. 

XLVI 

The naked hulk alongside came, 

And the twain were casting dice; 

‘The game is done! I’ve won, I’ve won!’ 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 


4 A dictionary will tell an interesting story of the orig;n 

of this word. 

6 Do you know other witch-creatures in literature? This 
is a vivid and startling picture of the creatures who inhabit 
the phantom ship. Note, in the next stanza, that this ter¬ 
rible creature wins the mariner and thus reserves him for 
a worse fate than death. 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


13 


XLVII 

The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out: 6 7 8 

At one stride comes the dark; 

With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 


No twilight 
within the 
courts of 
the Sun. 


XLvur 

We listened and looked sideways up! At the ris - 

it, , , , . mg of the 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, Moon. 

My life-blood seemed to sip! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman’s face by his lamp 
gleamed white; 

From the sails the dew did drip— 

Till clomib above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one bright star 
Within the nether tip. 

XLIX 

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, one after 

rp . , „ . , another, 

loo quick for groan or sigh, 

Each turned his face with a ghastly 
pang, 

And cursed me with his eye. 


6 Very concrete imagery, and a sense of almost breathless 
quickness in the physical changes involved. The “courts of 
the sun” are the tropics. 

7 One of the most remarkable stanzas in the poem. Its 

unusual length gives a retarded effect to the narrative, 
while its images, notably that in the second and third lines, 
are rich with poetic meaning. 



14 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


His ship¬ 
mates drop 
down dead. 

L 

Four times fifty living men, 

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 8 
They dropped down one by one. 

But Life- 
in-Death 
begins her 
work on the 
ancient 

Mariner. 

LI 

The souls did from their bodies fly,— 
They fled to bliss or woe! 

And every soul, it passed me by, 

Like the whizz of my cross-bow! 


8 Note the staccato effect of these two commonplace words 
-— they suggest exactly what the speaker means. 



PART THE FOURTH 


LII 

T fear 1 thee ancient Mariner^ 

I fear thy skinny hand! 

And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 
As is the ribbed sea-sand. 


The Wed¬ 
ding-Guest 
feareth 
that a 
Spirit is 
talking to 
him; 


LIII 


I fear thee, and thy glittering eye, 

And thy skinny hand, so brown/— 
Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! 
This body dropt not down. 

LIV 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide, wide sea! 

And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 


But the an¬ 
cient Mar¬ 
iner assur- 
eth him of 
his bodily 
life, and 
proceedeth 
to relate his 
horrible 
penance. 


LV 

The many men, so beautiful! 

And they all dead did lie: 

And a thousand thousand slimy things 
Lived on; and so did 1/ 


He despis- 
eth the 
creatures 
of the calm. 


LVI 

I looked upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away: 

I looked upon the rotting deck, 
And there the dead men lay. 


And envi- . 
eth that 
they should 
live, and so 
many lie 
dead. 


AVhat did he fear? The mariner knew; cf. last line of 
the next stanza. 

2 Part of the horror of being won by life-in-death. 

[15] 



16 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


LVII 

I looked to Heaven and tried to pray; 

But or * 3 ever a prayer had gusht 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 


LVIII 

I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
And the balls like pulses beat; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea 
and the sky 4 

Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead were at my feet. 


But the 
curse llveth 
for himi in 
the eye of 
the dead 
men. 


LIX 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they: 

The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 


LX 

An orphan’s curse would drag to hell 
A spirit from on high; 

But oh! more 'horrible than that 
Is a curse in a dead man’s eye! 

Seven days, seven nights, 5 6 I saw that 
curse,. 

And yet I could not die. 

s This is a variant of the Old English aor, meaning “be¬ 

fore,.” 

4 The length of this line is very effective, with its feverish 

repetition. 

6 Much more impressive than saying “a whole week.” 
Note the stress again on the life-in-death curse. 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


IT 


LXI 

The moving' Moon went up the sky, 
And nowhere did abide: 

Softly she was going up, 

And a star or two beside— 


In his lone¬ 
liness and 
fixedness he 
yearneth 
towards the 
journeying 
Moon, and 
the stars 
that still 


LXII 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread; 

But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 


sojourn, yet 
still move 
onward; 
and every¬ 
where the 
blue sky be¬ 
longs to 
them, and is 
their ap¬ 
pointed rest, 
and their 
native 


country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, 
as lords that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent joy 
at their arrival. 


LXIII 


Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes: 

They moved in tracks of shining white, 
And when they reared, the elfish light 
Fell off in hoary flakes. 


By the light 
of the Moon 
he behold- 
eth God's 
creatures of 
the great 
calm. 


LXIV 

Within” the shadow of the ship 
I watched their rich attire : 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 

They coiled and swam; and every track 
Was a flash of golden fire. 

"Contrast the picture in this stanza—with the preceding 


one. 



18 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


Their 

beauty and 
their happi¬ 
ness. 

LXV 

0 happy living things! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare: 

A spring of love gushed from my heart, 7 
And I blessed them unaware: 

He blesseth 
them in his 
heart. 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
And I blessed them unaware. 

The spell 
begins to 
break. 

LXVI 

The selfsame moment I could pray; 

And from my neck so free 

The Albatross fell off, and sank 

Like lead into the sea. 


7 The charm is broken, the curse lifted and he sees the 
beauty of every living form. With the return of sympathy 
he can pray and find relief. 



PART THE FIFTH 


LXVII 

Oh sleep! 1 it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole! 

To Mary Queen the praise be given! 

She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 

That slid into my soul. 

LXVIII 

The silly* buckets on the deck, 

That had so long remained, 

I dreamt that they were filled 1 
And when I awoke, it rained. 

LXIX 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 

My garments all were dank; 

Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 

And still my body drank. 

LXX 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs: 

I was so light—almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 

And was a blessed ghost. 

’Can you recall other apostrophes to sleep? Poets of 
all ages are fond of proclaiming the healing beneficence of 
sleep, cf. Macbeth, II, ii, 37-41, 2 Henry IV, III, i, 5-31, 
Keats’ Endymion, I, 453-63, several sonnets, and Coleridge’s 
The Pains of Sleep. 

2 Useless. 


By grace of 
the holy 
Mother, the 
ancient 

dew ; Mariner is 
refreshed 
with rain. 


[19] 



20 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


He heareth 
sounds 
and seeth 
strange 
sights and 
commo¬ 
tions in the 
sky and the 
element. 


LXXI 

And soon I heard a roaring wind: 

It did not come anear; 

But with its sound it shook the sails 
That were so thin and sere. 

LXXI I 

The upper air burst into life! 

And a hundred fire-flags sheen. 

To and fro they were hurried aboatE 
And to and fro, and in and out, 

The wan stars danced between. * 3 


LXXIII 

And the coming wind did roar more 
loud, 

And the sails did sigh like sedge; 
And the rain poured down from one 
black cloud; 

The Moon was at its edge. 


LXXIV 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and 
still 

The Moon was at its side: 

Like waters shot from some high crag, 4 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 

A river steep and wide. 


LXXV 


The bodies 
of the ship's 
crew are 
inspired, 
and the 
ship moves 
on. 


The loud wind never reached the ship, 
Yet now the ship moved on! 

Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 


8 Note the words which suggest rapid motion, and how 

they give lightness to the mood, 

4 Is this a good figure? 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


21 


LXXVI 

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 

Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 

It had been strange, even in a dream, 

To have seen those dead men rise. 

LXXVII 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on 
Yet never a breeze up j blew; 

The mariners all ’gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do: 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— 

We were a ghastly crew. 

LXXVIII 

The body of my brother’s son 
Stood by me, knee to knee: 

The body and I pulled at one rope 
But he said naught to me. 

LXXIX 

‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!’ 

Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 

’Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 

Which to their corses came again, 

But a troop of spirits blest: 

LXXX 

For when it dawned—they dropped their 

arms, saint 

And clustered round the mast; 

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 
mouths, 

And from their bodies passed. 


But not oy 
the souls of 
the men, 
nor by 
demons of 
earth or 
middle air, 
but by a 
blessed 
troop of an¬ 
gelic spirits, 
sent down 
by the invo- 


22 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


LXXXI 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
Then darted to the Sun; 

Slowly the sounds came back again. 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

LXXXII 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 5 
I heard the sky-lark sing; 

Sometimes all little birds that are, 

How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning! 

LXXXIII 

And now ’twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute; 

And now it is an angel’s song, 

That makes the heavens be mute. 

LXXXIV 

It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 

LXXXV 

Till noon we quietly sailed on, 

Yet never a breeze did breathe: 

Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

6 Happy sounds which come to the man atuned to life. 
Note how the images seem to tumble into his mind, how 
they suggest the quiet blessing he feels in being alive. 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


23 


LXXXVI 

Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of mist and snow, 
The spirit slid: and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 

The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 

LXXXVII 


The lone¬ 
some Spirit 
from the 
south-pole 
carries on 
the ship as 
far as the 
Line, in 
obedience 
to the an¬ 
gelic troop, 
but still re- 
quireth ven¬ 
geance. 


The Sun, right up above the mast, 

Had fixed her to the ocean: 

But in a minute she ’gan stir. 

With a short uneasy motion 6 — 
Backwards and forwards half her length 
With a short uneasy motion. 


LXXXVIII 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound: 

It flung the blood into my head, 
And I fell down in a swound. 


LXXXIX 

How long in that same fit I lay, 

I have not to declare; 

But ere my living life returned, 

I heard and in my soul discerned 
Two voices in the air. 7 

6 Ajiother interesting stanza for its rhythm; the added 
lines giving a sense of action delayed, the repeated line 
suggesting the forward and backward surge of the vessel. 

7 In the midst of actuality comes a further intrusion of 
the visionary. 



24 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


The Polar 
Spirit’s fel¬ 
low-de¬ 
mons, the 
invisible in¬ 
habitants of 
the ele¬ 
ment, take 
part in his 
wrong; and 
two of them 
relate, one 
to the other, 
that pen¬ 
ance long 
and heavy 
for the an¬ 
cient Mar¬ 
iner hath 
been ac¬ 
corded tc 
the Polar 
Spirit, who 
returnetb 
southward 


xc 

‘Is it he?’ quoth one, ‘Is this the man? 

By him who died on cross, 

With his cruel bow he laid full low, 
The harmless Albatross. 

XCI 

‘The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 

He lovea tne bird that loved the man 
Who snot him with his bow/ 

XCII 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew: 8 
’ Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done, 
And penance more will do/ 


8 There is a bewitching, fairy quality in this phrase “as 
soft as honey-dew,” quite apposed to our general meaning 
when we speak of a honied voice. Coleridge was thinking 
of the delicacy of dream figures. 



PART THE SIXTH 


XCIII 

FIRST VOICE 

‘But tell me, tell me! speak again, 

Thy soft response renewing— 

What makes that ship drive, on so fast? 
What is the Ocean doing?’ 


XCIV 

Second Voice 
‘Still as a slave before his lord, 

The Ocean hath no blast; 

His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast— 

xcv 

If he may know 1 which way to go; 

For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.’ 

XCVI 

FIRST VOICE 

‘But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind?’ 

SECOND VOICE 

‘The air is cut away before, 

And closes from be'hind. 

J In order that he may know. 


The Mar¬ 
iner hath 
been cast 
into a 
trance; for 
the angelic 
power caus- 
eth the ves¬ 
sel to drive 
northward 
faster than 
human life 
could en¬ 
dure. 


[25] 



26 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


XCVII 

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! 

Or we shall be belated : 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 
When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’ 


The super¬ 
natural 
motion is 
retarded; 
the Mariner 
awakes, and 
his penance 
begins 
anew. 


XCVIII 

I woke, and we were sailing on 
As in a gentle weather: 

’Twas night, calm night, the Moon was 
high; 

The dead men stood together. 


XCIX 

All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter: 
All fixed on me their stony eyes 
That in the Moon did glitter. 


The curse 
is finally 
expiated 


c 

The pang, the curse, with which they 
died, 

Had never passed away: 

I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
Nor turn them up to pray. 

Cl 

And now this spell was snapt: once 
more 

I viewed the ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seen— 


Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


27 


CII 2 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread. 

And having once turned round walks on, 
And turns no more his head; 

Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

cm 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made: 

Its path was not upon the sea. 

In ripple or in shade. 


CIV 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring— 

It mingled strangely with my fears, 

Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

CV 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 

Yet she sailed softly too: 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— 

On me alone it blew. 


CVI 

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
The light-house top I see? 3 
Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 4 
Is this mine own countree? 


And the 
ancient 
Mariner be- 
holdeth his 
native 
country. 


-±'nis is one of very few long similes in the poem Com¬ 
pare it in quality with some in Sohrab and Rnstum. 

3 Note that this is reverse order from the first mention 
of these objects. Why? Coleridge is an accurate observer 
in little things. 

4 An old Northern spelling of church, still used in Scot¬ 
land. 



28 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


The angelic 
spirits leave 
the dead 
bodies. 


And appear 
in their own 
forms of 
light. 


CVII 

We drifted o’er the harbour-bar, 

And I with sobs did pray— 

0 let me be awake, my God! 

Or let me sleep alway. 

CVXII 

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 

So smoothly it was strewn! 

And on the bay the moonlight lay, 

And the shadow of the Moon. 

CIX 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock: 

The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

CX 

And the bay was white with silent light 
Till rising from the same, 

Full many shapes, that shadows were, 

In crimson colours came. 

CXI 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were: 

I turned my eyes upon the deck— 

Oh, Christ! what saw I there! 

CXII 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat. 
And, by the holy rood! 5 

A man all light, a seraph-man, 

On every corse there stood. 


5 Rood —cross. 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


29 


CXIII 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand: 
It was a heavenly sight! 

They stood as signals to the land, 

Each one a lovely light; 

CXIV 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
No voice did they impart— 

No voice; but oh! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

CXV 6 

But soon I (heard the dash of oars, 

I heard the Pilot’s cheer; 

My head was turned perforce away, 

And I saw a boat appear. 

CXVI 

The Pilot, and the Pilot’s boy, 

I heard them coming fast: 

Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

CXVII 

I saw a third—I heard his voice: 

It is the Hermit good! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 
That he makes in the wood. 

He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away 
The Albatross’s blood. 


6 From this point onward we get back to realities. Note 
how familiar the objects and persons and actions are in 
the next stanzas. 



PART THE SEVENTH 


CXVIII 

This Hermit good lives in that wood o? e t h^ e ™od 
Which slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 

He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 


CXIX 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve— 
He hath a cushion plump: 

It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 


cxx 

The skiff-boat neared: I hear them talk, 
‘Why, this is strange, I trow! 

Where are those lights so many and 
fair, 

That signal made but now?’ 


CXXI 

‘Strange, by my faith!’ the Hermit 
said— 

‘And they answered not our cheer! 

The planks look warped! and see those 
sails, 

How thin they are and sere! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 


approach¬ 
es the ship 
with won¬ 
der. 


[30] 


Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


31 


CXXII 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along; 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf 
below, 

That eats the she-wolf’s young.’ 

CXXIII 

‘Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look— 

(The Pilot made reply) 

I am a-feared’—‘Push on, push on!’ 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 

CXXIV 

The boat came closer to the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirred; 

The boat came close beneath the ship, 

And straight a sound was heard. 

cxxv 

Under the water it rumbled on, The S hi P 

Still louder and more dread: SSceth 7 

It reached the ship, it split the bay; 

The ship went down like lead. 1 

‘With this stanza the last link with possibility of proor 
for these strange things is gone. The story becomes the 
tale of a lost ship and no man is alive to tell how much 
of the mariner’s tale is fact, how much the vision of a 
painful night-mare. He himself can hardly tell how he 
got into the rescue boat and to the land. These stanzas 
make the transition from the realm of the suffering spirit 
to the busy world of men. 



32 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


The ancient 
Mariner is 
saved in the 
Pilot’s boat. 


CXXVI 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful 
sound, 

Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days 
drowned 

My body lay afloat; 

But swift as dreams, myself I found 
Within the Pilot’s boat. 


CXXVII 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship. 
The boat spun round and round; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

CXXVIII 

I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked" 
And fell down in a fit; 

The holy Hermit raised his eyes 
And prayed where he did sit. 


CXXIX 

I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long, 2 3 and all the 
while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

‘Ha! ha!’ quoth he, ‘full plain I see, 
The Devil knows how to row.’ 

2 Note how we get the effect of the mariner’s appearance 
to others. 

3 A typical ballad phrase, cf. “Sir Patrick Spens ” 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


33 


CXXX 

And now, all in my own countree, 

I stood on the firm land! 

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 


CXXXI 

‘0 shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!’ 

The Hermit crossed his brow. 

‘Say quick,’ quoth he, ‘I bid thee say— 
What manner of man art thou?’ 


CXXXII 


The ancient 
Mariner 
earnestly 
entreateth * 
the Hermit 
to shrieve 
him; and 
the penance 
of life falls 
on him. 


Forthwith this frame of mine was 
wrenched 

With a woful agony, 

Which forced me to begin my tale; 
And then it left me free. 


CXXXIII 

Since then, at an uncertain hour, 

That agony returns: 

And till my ghastly tale is told, 

This heart within me burns. 

CXXXIV 

I pass, like night, from land to land; 4 

I have strange power of speech; 
That moment that his face I see, 

I know the man that must hear me; 
To him my tale I teach. 


And ever 
and anon 
throughout 
his future 
life an 
agony con- 
straineth 
him to 
travel from 
land to 
land. 


4 The old curse is replaced by an obligation to teach the 
new truth he has learned. 



34 


Rime of the Ancient Mariner 


cxxxv 

What loud uproar bursts from that 
door! 5 

The wedding-guests are there: 

But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are: 

And hark the little vesper bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

CXXXVI 

0 Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea: 

So lonely ’twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 


CXXXVII 

O' sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
’Tis sweeter far to me, 

To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company!— 


CXXXVIII 

To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends, 
Old men, and babes, and loving friends 
And youths and maidens gay! 


And to 
teach, by 
his own ex¬ 
ample, love 
and rever¬ 
ence to all 
things that 
God made 
and loveth. 


CXXXIX 

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 6 
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 


6 We return to the setting of the first lines, almost for¬ 
gotten in the experience we have shared with the mariner 
as he told his tale. 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


35 


CXL 

He prayetfi best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all/ 

CXLI 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 

Whose beard with age is hoar, 

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom’s door. 

CXLI I 

He went like one that hath been 
stunned, 

And is of sense forlorn: 7 
A sadder and a wiser man, 

He rose the morrow morn. 

b These two stanzas make the moral of the poem explicit. 
Do you agree with Coleridge that it would be better left 
unsaid? 

Repetition of the idea above. Forlorn—robbed of, or 
deprived; deprived of the power of feeling sensations. 




Sohrab and Rustum 

By Matthew Arnold 





Matthew Arnold 






Matthew Arnold, eldest son of the famous Dr. 
Thomas Arnold, Master of Rugby, was born on 
Christmas Eve of 1822 in the quiet village of Lale- 
ham in Middlesex. As a boy he was instructed by 
the master of a local private school, later by an¬ 
other at Winchester, and he received the last touches 
of preparation for college under his great father at 
Rugby. He seems not to have been popular with 
the boys during these school days, but his devotion 
to study kept him well at the top in contests for 
prizes in scholarship. Toward, the end of the Rug¬ 
by days he won the Balliol Open Scholarship, and 
at nineteen entered this most scholarly of the 
colleges of Oxford. The story of his University 
days is a record of successive achievement in schol¬ 
arship, the most notable of which was the Newdi- 
gate prize for English verse. 

His University life fell in the early days of the 
“Oxford Movement” fostered by an eager and ques¬ 
tioning group of brilliant young men who were turn¬ 
ing their best thoughts on the intellectual and spir¬ 
itual condition of England and expressing them¬ 
selves in ringing utterances. It was a stirring ex¬ 
perience to be one of the group which included 
Thomas Hughes, Dean Church, the Froudes, John 
Henry Newman and Arthur Hugh Clough. His deep¬ 
est friendship was with Clough, the poet whose 
death he mourned in “Thyrsis.” Many lines in his 
poetry as well as his prose pay tribute to his love 
of the scholarly and inspiring atmosphere of Oxford 
in those formative years. 

After graduation with honors in 1844 he was 
elected a fellow in Oriel College. For a time he 
taught at Rugby, but in 1847 he became private sec- 

[39] 


40 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


retary to the Earl of Lansdowne and probably con¬ 
sidered entering' political life. In 1851 he was ap¬ 
pointed Inspector of Public Schools and became 
thereby identified with the educational interests of 
England permanently, for the duties he assumed 
then he filled during the rest of his rather long life. 

This position involved the most arduous and at 
times painfully dull routine tasks, but Arnold seems 
to have preserved always a splendid sense of the ne¬ 
cessity for patience and sympathy in dealing with 
the scores of teachers whose work came under his 
supervision. The work was enlarged by several trips 
to the continent to inquire into the school systems 
of other countries, and it resulted in the essay 
“Schools and Universities of the Continent” pub¬ 
lished after his first trip in 1859, with various other 
articles in criticism of the English public school 
system and the social conditions for which he felt 
that system was responsible. From 1857 to 1867 he 
also held the professorship of poetry at Oxford. 

Twice during his inspectorship he visited Amer¬ 
ica on lecture trips. On the first of these trips he 
lectured on Emerson, our foremost man of letters; 
during the second visit, in 1886, he/ lectured on the 
state of education in Europe. On this occasion Ar¬ 
nold made severe but honest criticism of the money- 
getting spirit of America whiqh he felt was the 
great hindrance to the spread of a real culture 
among us, just as he had said the sordid instincts 
and blind prejudices of the middle classes in Eng¬ 
land were to blame for what he called the “Philis¬ 
tinism” of his own people. It is well to remember that 
Arnold was a sincere judge, genuinely concerned for 
the lack of great and effective ideals in the life of a 
people—his own and others. 

The years of his maturity, from 1865 to his death 


Sketch of Arnold 


41 


in 1888, Matthew Arnold devoted to an intense and 
sincere effort to awaken the English people to a 
sense of the most valuable things in life. He felt 
that the development of machinery and parties was 
sapping the spiritual strength of his nation, and he 
pled for what he termed the “disinterested endeavor 
to know the best which has been thought and said 
in the world” as a means to the culture which would 
offset materialism. His grief at the drift away 
from old religious faith led him to writing also on 
what he felt was the best and most lasting in re¬ 
ligion. In both these fields, of culture and of re¬ 
ligion, Arnold’s was a pre-eminent voice in his day. 
No two volumes mean more as a record of high 
thinking than the treatises Culture and Anarchy, 
1865, and Literature and Dogma, 1875, which show 
the two directions of his thought. He steadily 
looked forward to a more intelligent and artistic, 
and more moral world. 

Meanwhile his career in poetry, which was the 
chosen field of the young man, had begun and ended. 
In length it was much shorter than the careers of 
Browning and Tennyson who represent for us now 
the leadership in poetry for the Victorian age. Ar¬ 
nold’s best poetry was produced between 1853 when 
he published Empedocles and Other Poems, and the 
volume called New Poems, printed in 1869—a bare 
sixteen years. 

Arnold’s poetry deals with two subject matters 
chiefly. It reflects the great religious unrest of his 
age, the questions which the human heart yearns 
to have answered—a concern at any time, but es¬ 
pecially poignant in Arnold’s time when the new 
ideas of science were upsetting the dogmas of tra¬ 
ditional religion. Arnold’s poetry again and again 
deals with problems of life and death, the meaning 


42 


SOHRAB AND KUSTUM 


of existence and the life tjhat comes after. Like 
many others, Arnold did not arrive at answers to 
the questions his spirit raised, and his poetry on 
the whole is tinged with melancholy which sometimes 
ends in resignation but never develops into robust 
faith. His verse will continue to be read because 
men will continue to face these abiding problems, 
and because as an artist in words he has given beau¬ 
tiful expression to this side of life. 

But there is another interest in Arnold’s poetry. 
A trained classicist, he tries to reproduce in certain 
of his poems the qualities he admired in Greek poe¬ 
try, restraint and order. He is perhaps the greatest 
illustrator in England of the classic style—in the 
repose and simplicity and unity of his manner of 
thought. In subject matter he emphasizes the real¬ 
ity of the ideal element in human character, in form 
he stresses the impression of totality rather than the 
beauty of single parts. 

He comes very close to his idea of the unity which 
pleases the poetical sense in his treatment of the 
story of Sohrab and Rustum. The poem deals with 
materials w;h,ich stir our sympathy, and it presents 
its story in very simple and direct fashion. As an 
artist Arnold knows the value of the poet’s devices 
—but these 1 elements are made to contribute to one 
grand impression rather than at any time to claim 
attention to themselves. In action this poem moves 
forward with steady progress to its inevitable con¬ 
clusion, and with the greatest simplicity of diction, 
it builds a majestic picture of the inexorableness of 
fate. 


Comment on Sohrab and Rustum 

The episode of Sohrab and Rustum is found in 
the great epic of Persia, the Shah Nameh composed 
by the poet Firdusi late in the tenth century. The 
action of this old epic, which is to Persian literature 
what the Iliad and Odyssey are to Greek, covers a 
period of some six centuries and comprises the 
achievements of a long line of kings who were the 
founders of the nation, and whose actions illustrate 
ttfie ideals of the Persian people. Many of its in¬ 
cidents center around the hero Rustum and his won¬ 
derful horse Ruksh. The episode Arnold chooses to 
recount is the seventh in a series of twelve which 
make up the epic. 

In choosing this episode Arnold has done what the 
great dramatists of tjhe world have always done— 
he has chosen a stirring and decisive moment from 
a larger sequence of happenings, and, with sympa¬ 
thetic imagination has emphasized and intensified 
the human problem till we in reading feel all the 
hope and anxiety and suffering involved just as we 
do in witnessing a great tragedy on the stage. He 
has made us see the heroic aspiration of the young 
man and fihe powerful strength and pride of the 
old warrior, and in the event which involves them 
equally he has renewed our admiration for the cour¬ 
ageous souks acceptance of a hard fate. It is inter¬ 
esting in studying the poem to read it as one would a 
drama, watching for marked stages of development 
in clear-cut scenes all leading to a great tragic con¬ 
clusion. 

The suggestions and footnotes are put in as helps 
toward a fuller appreciation of one of the most state¬ 
ly narrative poems in English literature. 


[43] 


Selected List of Names in the Poem 1 

Ader-baijan —tizerbi yan: northernmost province of 
Persia. 

Afrasiab —a fra' si yab: great leader, fabled to be of 
the house of Sur. At the time of this story his 
glory was waning before that of the house of 
Zal. 

Ferood —fer rood': leader of the Persians. 

Gudurz —goo durz: a Persian counsellor. 

Kai Khosroo —Id kos rod': Persian king of the sixth 
century B. C. In his reign befell the episode of 
Sohrab and Rustum. 

Khiva —ke' va: desert province of Turkestan. 

Pamere —pa mer': “the roof of the world/’ in which 
Oxus takes its rise. 

Peran Wisa —pe ran wi sa: Turanian chief, comman¬ 
der of Afrasiab’s forces. 

Ruksh —rooksh: mighty steed tamed by Rustum. 

Rustum —rus' turn. 

Samarcand —sam ar kand: once the capital of Timur’s 
empire, today a center of Mohammedan learning. 

Seistan —sas tan': city and lake in Afghanistan, 
named from Sarghis, a kind of wood abundant 
' there. 

Sohrab —so rab'. 

Tejend —te yend'. 

[44] 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


45 


Zal —-zal: “the aged,” said to be of the tribe of Ben¬ 
jamin; the fatjher of Rustum. Born with snow 
white hair, a color odious to the Persians, he 
was exposed on the mountains and finally cared 
for by a marvelous bird, which in turn he chose 
for his symbol. 

‘Only important names or ones about which there might 
be uncertainty in pronunciation. It is essential that stu¬ 
dents should possess some feeling for the poetic value of 
these names, but not at all desirable that they should be 
held to exactness in rolling them off. 



Topics and Questions for Discussion 

I. Considering the story as a great drama, note 
its features: 

A. The enveloping mood of quietness in na¬ 
ture; the river and the camp. Read lines 
at the first and the last which establish 
this background. 

B. Rather clearly marked stages of action, 
ending successively, 

Part I, at line 93 
Part II, at line 169 
Part III, at line 259 
Part IV, at line 397 
Part V, at line 526 

Sum up briefly the action by parts, and 
try to discover the function of each in re¬ 
lation to the others. 

II. Make a list of similes in the poem: Compare 
them for length, for relation to objects in na¬ 
ture, and for the reference to moments in 
every day life. Try to decide which of these 
similes are most effective as adding to the 
mood of the story, which for sheer beauty of 
imagery. 

III. List aphorisms in the poem—terse statements 
of general truth growing out of the situation. 
Are they good bits of philosophy to remem¬ 
ber? What is their effect in the poem? An 
example is 1. 59 and there are many others. 

IV. In studying the two chief characters, watch 
for passages which reveal physical appearance, 
and those which reveal the qualities of mind, 

[46] 


Matthew Arnold 


47 


the hopes and ideals of each. Then try to see 
how essential each such passage is to its place 
in the poem. Could any be shifted and not 
lose in effectiveness? Try some. 

V. Notice the proportionate space given to lines 
of direct narration, to pure description, and to 
dialogue or musing by the characters. Illus¬ 
trate each. 

VI. If you were marking passages to remember or 
re-read, indicate your choices : 

a. for beauty of sense impressions, sound, 
color, form, 

and 

b. for significance of ideas. 

VII. Can you sum up under one head the quality 
or feature of the poem which to you gives it 
greatest value? 


Sohrab and Rustum 

An Episode 

“I am occupied with a thing” that gives me more 
pleasure than anything I 'have ever done yet: which 
is a good sign, but whether I shall not ultimately 
spoil it by being obliged to strike it off in fragments, 
instead of at one heat, I cannot quite say.” . . . “All 
my spare time has been spent on a poem which I 
have just finished, and which I think by far the best 
thing I have yet done, and I t^hink that it will be 
generally liked; though one can never be sure of 
this. I have had the greatest pleasure in composing 
it: a rare thing with me, and, as I think, a good test 
of the pleasure what you write is likely to afford to 
others. But the story is a very noble and excellent 
one.” From letters of Matthew Arnold to members 
of ihis family in April and May of 1853. 

The story of Sohrab and Rustum is told in Sir 
John Malcolm’s History of Persia, as follows:— 

“The young Sohrab . . . had left his mother, and 
sought fame under the banners of Afrasiab, whose 
armies he commanded, and soon obtained a renown 
beyond that of all contemporary heroes but his fath¬ 
er. He had carried deat^h and dismay into the ranks 
of the Persians, and had terrified the boldest war¬ 
riors of that country, before Rustum encountered 
him, which at last that hero resolved to do, under a 
feigned name. They met three times. The first time 
they parted by mutual consent, though Sohrab had 
the advantage; the second, the youth obtained a vic¬ 
tory, but granted life to his unknown father; the 
third was fatal to Sohrab, who, when writhing in the 
pangs of death, warned his conqueror to shun the 
vengeance that is inspired by parental wees, and 
[48] 


Matthew Arnold 


49 


bade him dread the rage of the mighty Rustum, who 
must soon learn that he had slain his son Sohrab. 
These words, we are told, were as death to the aged 
hero; and when he recovered from a trance, he 
called in despair for proofs of what Sohrab had said. 
The afflicted and dying youth tore open his mail, and 
showed his father a seal which his mother had 
placed on his arm when she discovered to him the 
secret of his birth, and bade him seek his father. 
The sight of his own signet rendered Rustum quite 
frantic; he cursed himself, attempting to put an end 
to his existence, and, was only prevented by the ef¬ 
forts of his expiring son. After Sohrab’s death, he 
burnt his tents and all his goods, and carried the 
corpse to Seistan, where it was interred; the army 
of Turan was, agreeably to the last request of Soh¬ 
rab, permitted to cross the Oxus unmolested. To 
reconcile us to the improbability of this tale, we are 
informed that Rustum could have no idea his son 
was in existence. The mother of Sohrab had written 
to him her child was a daughter, fearing to lose her 
darling infant if she revealed the truth; and Rus¬ 
tum, as before stated, fought under a feigned name, 
an usage not uncommon in the chivalrous combats of 
those days.” 

And 1 the first grey of morning fill’d the east, 

And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. 2 

J The character of this story as an episode in a larger 
narrative is suggested by this Biblical use of the connective, 
cf. I Sam. xvii: 48. “And it came to pass when the Phil¬ 
istine arose . . .” Note further analogy in this usage 11. 
8-11 below, and cf. the subsequent verses in the story of 
David. I Sam. xvii: 49-58. 

2 This is the modern river Amu Daria, an important nav¬ 
igable stream separating Turan from Iran. Note how it 
moves along the fringes of the story, like a living presence. 



50 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


But all the Tartar camp along the stream 
Was hush’d, and still the men were plung’d in 
sleep; 

Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long 5 

He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed. 

But when the grey dawn stole into his tent, 

He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, 

And took his horseman’s cloak, and left his tent, 
And went abroad into the cold wet fog, 10 

Through the dim camp, to Peran-Wisa’s 3 tent. 
Through the black Tartar tents he pass’d, 
W|hich stood 

Clustering like bee-hives 4 on the low flat strand 
Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o’erflow 
When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere; 15 
Through the black tents he pass’d, o’er that low 
strand, 

And to a hillock came, a little back 
From the stream’s brink—the spot where first a 
boat, 

Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the 

land. 

The men of former times had crown’d the top 20 
With a clay fort; but that was fall’n, and now 
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa’s tent, 

A dome of laths, and o’er it felts were spread. 

3 This name, like others in the poem, belongs to actual 
oriental history. The sound quality of these names adds 
much to the tone and Old-World atmosphere of the tale. 
These characters may be identified by reference to the in¬ 
troduction, but for an appreciation of the story it is well 
to remember only such names as stand out and in most 
cases explain themselves. 

4 This simile is the first of a number of figures Arnold 
uses, in the manner of the old epic writers, to enhance the 
beauty of his poem. Note how clear the picture is, and 
how close to things we know. 



Matthew Arnold 


51 


And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood 
Upon the thick-piled 5 carpets in the tent, 

And found the old man sleeping on his bed 
Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. 

And Peran-Wisa heard him, plough the step 
Wajs dull’d; for he slept light, an old man’s 
sleep ; 9 

And he rose quickly on one arm, and said:— 

‘Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn. 
Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?’ 

But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said:— 
‘Thou know’st me, Peran-Wisa! it is I. 

The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 35 

Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie 
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. 

For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, 

In Samarcand, before the army march’d; 40 

And I will tell thee what my heart desires. 

Thou know’st if, 6 7 * since from Adernbaijan first 
I came among the Tartars and bore arms, 

I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, 

At my boy’s years, the courage of a man. 45 

This too thou know’st, that while I still bear on 
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the 
world, 

And beat the Persians back on every field, 

I seek one man, one man, and one alone— 

Rustum, my father; who I hop’d should greet, 50 
Should one day greet, upon some well-fought 
field 

6 What does piled mean here? 

6 Careful observation of a common-place fact. This is not 
the sleeplessness of the youth touched on in 1. 36. 

7 We say ivTiether . . . How much do these lines tell of 

the motive of Sohrab’s action? 



52 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 8 
So I long hoped, but him I never find. 

Come then, Jiear now, and grant me what I ask. 

Let the two armies rest to-day; but I 9 55 

Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords 
To meet me, man to man; if I prevail, 

Rustum will surely hear it: if I fall— 

Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. 

Dim is the rumour of a common fight, 60 

Where host jneets host, and many names are 
sunk: 

Rut of a single combat fame speaks clear.’ 

He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the hand 10 
Of the young man in his, and sigh’d, and said:— 

‘Oi Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine! 

Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, 

And share the battle’s common chance with us 
Who love thee, but must press for ever first, 

In single fight incurring single risk, 11 
To find a father thou hast never seen? 70 

That were far best, my son, to stay with us 
Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war, 

And when ’t is truce, then in Afrasiab’s towns. 

But, if this one desire indeed rules all, 

To seek out Rustum—seek him not through 

fight! 75 

Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, 

0 Sohrab, carry an unwounded son! 

°iNote the piled-up rhetoric of these repetitions. What 
do they show of the emotion of the youth? How do they 
prepare for the later tragedy? 

°Other challenges make interesting comparison here: 
The Iliad, Bk. Ill, and I Sam. xvii:4-10. 

10 Some readers think this act unnatural Do you? 

“Note the repetition here and in 11. 75-6 below, and 
compare with 11. 6-16 above. What is the effect? Find 
other illustrations. 



Matthew Arnold 


53 


But far hence seek him, for he is not here. 

For now it is not as when I was young, 

When Rustum was in front of every fray: 80 

But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, 

In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. 

Whether that his own mighty strength at last 
Feels the abhorr’d approaches of old age, 

Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. 12 85 
There go!—Thou wilt not? Yet my heart fore¬ 
bodes 13 

Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 

Fain would I know thee safe and well, though 
lost 

To us; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace 
To seek thy father, not seek single fights 90 

In vain:—But who can keep the lion’s cub 
From ravening, and who govern Rustum’s son? 

Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires.’ 

So said he, and dropp’d Sohrab’s hand, and 
left 

His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay; 95 
And o’er his chilly limbs his woollen coat 
He pass’d, and tied his sandals on his feet, 

And threw a white cloak round him, and he took 
In his right hand a ruler’s staff, no sword; 

And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, 100 
Black, glossy, curl’d, the fleece of Kara-Kul; 14 
And rais’d the curtain of his tent, and call’d 
His herald to his side, and went abroad. 

12 Lines 79-85 give information necessary to the later ac¬ 
tion. The brooding nature of Rustum is emphasized more 
directly later. 

33 This foreboding is a very effective element in drama. 
Arnold added it to the story here as direct preparation. 
Do you like it? 

14 A town in Bokhara noted for its fleeces. We prize 
caracul as a rich fur to-day. 



54 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


The sun by this had risen, and clear’d the fog 
From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. 105 
And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed 
Into the open plain; so Haman bade— 

Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled 
The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 

From their black tents, long files of horse, 110 

they stream’d; 

As when some grey November morn the files. 

In marching order spread, of long-neck’d cranes 
Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes 
Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, 

Or some frore 16 Caspian reed-bed, southward 115 
bound 

For the warm Persian sea-board—so they 
stream’d. 

The Tartars of the Oxus, the King’s guard, 

First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long 
spears; 

Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara 
come 

And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. 16 120 
Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the 
south, 

The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, 

And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands; 
Light men and on light steeds, who only drink 
The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 125 
And then a swarm of wandering horse, who 
came 

From far, and a more doubtful service own’d; 

The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 

15 From the participle of the Anglo-Saxon verb freosan, 
to freeze. 

““Koumiss,” made from the fermented milk of mares, 
was a drink much used in Persia. 



Matthew Arnold 


55 


Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards 
And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder 

hordes 130 

Who roam o’er Kipchak and the northern waste, 
Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who 
stray 

Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, 

Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere— 

These all 17 filed out from camp into the plain. 135 
And on the other side of Persians form’d:— 

First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem’d, 

The Uyats of Khorassan; and behind, 

The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, 
Marshall’d battalions bright in burnish’d steel. 18 140 
But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, 

Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, 

And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. 

And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw 
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 

He took his spear, and to the front he came, 

And check’d his ranks, and fix’d them where 
they stood. 

And the old Tartar came upon the sand 
Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said:— 

‘Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear! 150 
Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. 

But choose a champion 19 from the Persian lords 
To fight our champion, Sohrab, man to man.’ 

17 Note the effect of massing these lines suggest, and the 
picture involved, with the contrast of more brilliant forces 
on the Persian side. Is your interest enlisted more for 
one side than the other? 

18 A good line to read aloud What literary device is 
used to get the effect intended? It is more slightly 
used in 1. 152 again. 

19 Similar incidents are found in the story of David in I 
Sam. 17,. and in Iliad, Bk. III. 



56 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


As, in the country, on a morn in June, 

When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 155 
A shiver runs through the deep corn 20 for joy— 

So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, 

A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran 
Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom t|hey loved. 

But as 21 a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, 

Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 

That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk 
snow; 

Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass 
Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, 
Choked by the air, and scarce can they them- 165 
selves 

Slake their parch’d throats with sugar’d mulber¬ 
ries— 

In single file they move, and stop their breath, 

For fear they should dislodge the o’erhanging 
snows— 

So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. 

And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up 170 
To counsel; Gudurz and Zoarrah came, 

And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host 
Second, and was the uncle of the' King; 

These came and counsell’d, and then Gudurz 
said :— 

‘Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge 175 
up, 

Yet champion have we none to match this youth. 

20 Used in the sense of ‘grain.” Only in America has the 
word a limited meaning. 

21 Try reading this long simile aloud, noting the sustained 
control of voice it demands. 



Matthew Arnold 


57 


He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart. 1 
But Rustum came last night; aloof 3 he sits 
And sullen, and has pitch’d his tents apart. 

Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 180 

The Tartar challenge, and this young man’s 
name; 

Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 

Stand forth the while, and take their challenge 
up.’ 

So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and 
cried:— 

‘Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said! 185 

Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.’ 

He spake; and Peran-Wisa turn’d, and strode 
Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. 

But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, 

And cross’d the camp which lay behind, and 190 
reach'd. 

Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum’s tents. 4 
Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, 

Just pitch’d; the high pavilion in the midst 
Was Rustum’s, and his men lay camp’d around. 

And Gudurz enter’d Rustum’s tent, and found 195 
Rustum; his morning meal was done, but still 
The table stood before him, charged with food— 

A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread, 

And dark green melons; and there Rustum sate * 
Listless, and held a falcon" on his wrist, 

: *Achilles was described as “swift of foot.” “fiery-hearted. ’ 
What qualities do the phrases attribute to the young champ¬ 
ion? 

“This sullen brooding of a disaffected leeder suggests 
Achilles. Iliad. Bk. I, 1. 348. 

“Why this list of details? 

“Old form of “sat.” 

“Falconry was practiced 1700 years before ChriRt. and 
remains a favorite sport in parts of Asia. 



58 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


And play’d with it; but Gudurz came and stood 
Before him; and he look’d, and saw him stand. 
And with a cry sprang up and dropp’d the bird, 
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and 
said:— 

‘Welcome! these eyes could see no better 
sight. 

What news? but sit down first, and eat and 
drink.’ 

But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and 
said:— 

‘Not now ! a time will come to eat and drink, 
But not to-day; to-day has other needs. 

The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze; 
For from the Tartars is a challenge brought 
To pick a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight their champion—and thou know’st his 
name— 

Sohrab men call him, but ,his birth is hid. 

0 Rustum, like thy 27 might is this young man’s! 
He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart; 
And he is young, and Iran’s chiefs are old, 

Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee. 
Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose!’ 
He spoke; but Rustum answer’d with a 
smile:— 

‘Go to! if Iran’s chiefs are old, then I 
Am older; if the young are weak, the King 
Errs strangely; for the King, for Kai Khosroo, 
Himself is young, and honours younger men, 
And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 
Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young— 
The young may rise at Sohrab’s vaunts, not I. 
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab’s 
fame ? 

J7 Indirect preparation for later incidents. 


205 

210 

215 

225 



Matthew Arnold 


59 


For would that I myself had such, a son, 

And not that one slight helpless girl I have— 230 
A son so fam’d, so brave, to send to war, 

And I to tarry with the snow-hair’d Zal, 

My father, whom the robber Afghans vex, 

And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, 

And he has none to guard his weak old age. 235 
There would I go, and, hang my armour up, 

And with my great name fence that weak old 
man, 

And spend the goodly treasures I have got, 

And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab’s fame, 

And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings, 240 
And with these slaughterous hands draw sword 
no more.’ 

He spoke, and smil’d; and Gudurz made re¬ 
ply:— 

‘What then, 0 Rustum, will men say to this, 

When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks 
Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, 245 
Hidest thy face? Take heed 28 lest men should 
say: 

Like some old miser , Rustum hoards his fame, 

And shuns to peril it with younger men .’ 20 

And, greatly moved, then Rustum made re¬ 
ply:— 

‘0 Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words? 250 
Thou knowest better words than this to say. 

What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, 
Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? 

Are not they mortal, am not I myself? 

2S Lines 229-41 make a companion passage to that which 
emphasizes Sohrab’s restless longing to find his father. 
Both establish sympathy for the central figures in the trag¬ 
edy. 

20 Note the arguments used to stir the old champion. 



60 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


But who for men of nought would do great 255 
deeds ? 

Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his 
fame! 

But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms; 30 
Let not men say of Rustum, he was match’d 
In single fight with any mortal man.’ 

He spoke, and frown’d; and Gudurz turn’d, and 260 
ran 

Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy— 
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. 

But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and call’d 
His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, 

And clad himself in steel; the arms he chose 265 
Were plain, and on his shield was no device, 

Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, 

And, from the! fluted spine atop, a plume 
Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume. 

So arm’d, he issued forth; and Ruksh, his horse, 270 
Follow’d him like a faithful hound, at heel— 
Ruksh, 31 whose renown was noised through all 
the earth, 

Thq horse, whom Rustum on a foray once 

Did in Bokhara by the river find 

A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, 275 

30 How do these conditions affect the later action? 

. 31 Another poem tells the story of Rustum and his horse. 
As a young warrior he had looked long for a steed of might 
and had tried many. Finally he discovered among the 
wild flocks of Cabul a beautiful rose-colored steed whom 
no rider had been able to mount, until Rustum as if pre¬ 
destined his master made him his own and thereby ful¬ 
filled the prophecy that by the aid of a steed he should be 
master of the world. Other famous horses in literature are 
Xanthus of Achilles, Bucephalus of Alexander, Aquiline of 
Ramond in Jerusalem Delivered, Babieca of the Gid, and 
the horse of the great satire Don Quixote. 



Matthew Arnold 


61 


And rear’d him; a bright bay, with lofty crest, 
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider’d green 
Crusted with gold, and on the ground were 
work’d 

All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters 
know. 

So follow’d, Rustum left his tents, and cross’d 280 
The camp, and to the Persian host appear’d. 

And all the Persians knew him, and with, shouts 
Hail’d; but the Tartars knew not who he was. 

And dear as the wet diver 32 to the eyes 
Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore,— 285 
By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf 
Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, 
Having made up his tale 33 of precious pearls, 
Rejoins her in their Rut upon the sands— 

Bo dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. 290 
And Rustum to the Persian front advanced, 

And Sohrab arm’d in Hainan’s tent, and came. 

And as afield the reapers cut a swath 
Down through the middle of a rich man’s corn, 

And on each side are squares of standing corn, 295 
And in the midst a stubble, short and bare— 

So on each side were squares of men, with 
spears 

^Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. 

And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast 

His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw 300 

Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. 

As some rich woman, on a winter’s morn, 

Eyes through her silken curtains the poor 
drudge 

32 The first of four long figures put in to delay the move¬ 
ment of the story. Are they effective? 

33 Like our word toll, from Anglo-Saxon talian, “to 
reckon.” 



62 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


Who with numb blacken’d fingers makes her 
fire 

At cock-crow, on a starlit winter’s morn, 305 

When the frost flowers the whiten’d window- 
panes, 

And wonders how she lives, and what the 
thoughts 

Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyed 
The unknown adventurous Youth, who from 
afar 

Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth 310 

All the most valiant chiefs; long he perused 
His spirited air, and wonder’d who he was. 

For very young he seem’d, tenderly rear’d; 

Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and 
straight, 

Which in a queen’s secluded garden throws 315 
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, 

By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound— 

So slender Sohrab seem’d, so softly rear’d. 

And a deep pity enter’d Rustum’s soul 
As he beheld him coming; and he stood, 320 

And beckon’d to him with his hand, and 
said: 34 — 

‘0 thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft, 

And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold! 
Heaven’s air is better than the cold dead grave. 
Behold me! I am vast, and clad in iron, 325 

And tried; and I have stood on many a field 
Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe— 
Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. 

34 Lines 322-44 are employed to fill in the human back¬ 
ground and build up the feeling of kinship which adds 
strong pathos to the later action. Try to picture the 
scene. Note the contrasts of strong human yearning am? 
warrior’s pride on both sides. 




Matthew Arnold 


63 


0 Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death? 
Be govern’d! quit the Tartar host, and come 
To Iran, and be as my son to me, 

And fight beneath my banner till I die! 

There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.’ 

So he spake, mildly; Sohrab heard his voice, 
The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw 
His giant figure planted on the sand, 

Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
Hath builded on the waste in former years 
Against the robbers; and he saw that head, 
Streak’d with its first grey hairs; hope fill’d his 
soul— 

And he ran forward and embraced his knees, 
And clasp’d his hand within his own, and 
said:— 

‘Oh, by thy father’s head! by thine own soul! 
Art thou not Rustum? speak: art thou not he?’ 
But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, 
And turn’d away, and spake to his own soul:— 
‘Ah me, I muse what this young fox may 
mean! 

False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 
For if I now confess this thing he asks, 

And hide it not, but say: Rustum is here! 

He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, 

But he will find some pretext not to fight, 

And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, 
A belt or sword, perhaps, and go his way. 

And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab’s hall, 

In Samarcand, he will arise and cry: 

“I challeng’d once, when the two armies camp’d 
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 
To cope with me in single fight; but they 
Shrank, only Rustum dar’d: then he and I 
Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.” 


330 

335 

340 

345 

350 

355 

360 



64 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


So will ne speak, perhaps, while men applaud. 

Then were the chiefs of Iran sham’d through 
me.’ 

And then he turn’d, and sternly spake 
aloud:— 

‘Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus 365 
Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call’d 
By challenge forth; make good thy vaunt, or 
yield! 

Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight? 

Rash boy, men look on Rustum’s face and flee! 

For well I know, that did great Rustum stand 370 
Before thy face this day, and were reveal’d, 

There would/ be then no talk of fighting more. 

But being what I am, I tell thee this— 

Do thou record it in thine inmost soul: 

Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield. 375 
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till 
' winds 

Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods, 

Oxus in summer wash them all away.’ 

He spoke; and Sohrab answer’d, on his 
feet:— 

‘Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fright me so! 380 
I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 

Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand 
Here on this field, there were no fighting then. 

But Rustum is far hence, 35 and we stand here. 
Begin! thou art more vast, more dread than I, 385 
And thou art proved, I know, and I am young 
But yet success sways with the breath of 
Heaven. 30 

35 This device, of statement contrary to fact, is very ef¬ 
fective in dramatic situations in which the audience knows 
more than the actors involved. 

36 Emphasis on the part fate plays in human affairs. It 
is enlarged in 11. 390-96 below. 



Matthew Arnold 


65 


And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure 
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. 

For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 390 
Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, 

Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. 

And whether it will heave us up to land, 

Or whether it will roll us out to sea, 

Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death, 395 
We know not, and no search will make us know; 

Only the event will teach us in its hour.’ 

He spoke, and Rustum answer'd not, but hurl'd 
His spear; down from the shoulder, down it 
came, 

As on some partridge in the corn a hawk, 400 

That long has tower’d in the airy clouds, 

Drops like a plummet; 37 Sohrab saw it come, 

And sprang aside, quick as a flash; the spear 
Hiss'd, and went quivering down into the sand, 
Which it sent flying wide;—then Sohrab threw 405 
In turn, and full struck Rustum’s shield; sharp 
rang, 

The iron plates rang sharp, but turn’d the spear. 

And Rustum seiz'd his club, which none but he 
Could wield; an unlopp’d trunk it was, and huge, 

Still rough like those which men in treeless 

plains— 410 

To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, 
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up 
By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time 
Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack, 38 
And strewn the channels with torn boughs—so 

huge 415 

The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck 

37 Is this figure accurate? 

38 Wreck, havoc. 



66 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside, 39 
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came 
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum’s 
hand. 

And Rustum follow’d his own blow, and fell 420 
To his knees, and with his fingers clutch’d the 
sand; 

And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his 

sword, 425 

And pierc’d the mighty Rustum while he lay 
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand: 

But he look’d on, and smiled, nor bared his 
sword, 

But courteously drew back, and spoke, and 
said:— 

‘Thou strik’st too hard! that club of thine will 
float 

Upon the summer-floods, and not my bones. 

But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am I; 

No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul, 40 430 
Thou say’st, thou art not Rustum; be it so! 

Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul? 

Boy as I am, I have seen battles too— 

Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, 

And heard their hollow roar of dying men; 435 

But never was my heart thus touch’d before. 

Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the 
heart? 

0 thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven! 

Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, 

And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 440 

And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, 

39 These lines should be read aloud to get the full value 
of their sound as adapted to meaning and mood. 

40 Lines 430-47 reiterate the effect of kinship felt but not 
understood by the two combatants. 



Matthew Arnold 


67 


And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum’s deeds. 
There are enough foes in the Persian host, 
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang; 
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 
Mayst fight; fight them , when they confront thy 
spear I 

But oh, let there be peace ’twixt thee and me!’ 
He ceased, but while he spake, Rustum had 
risen, 

And stfood erect, trembling with rage; his club 
He left to lie, but had regain’d his spear, 

Whose fiery point now in his mail’d right-hand 
Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, 
The baleful sign of fevers; dust nad soil’d 
His stately crest, and dimm’d his glittering arms- 
His breast heaved, his lips foam’d, and twice his 
voice 

Was chok’d with rage; at last these words broke 
way:— 

‘Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands! 
Curl’d minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words! 
Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more! 
Thou art not in Afrasiab’s gardens now 
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to 
dance; 

But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance 
OT battle, and with me, who make no play 
Of war; I fight it out, and hand to hand. 

Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! 
Remember all thy valour; try thy feints 
And cunning*! All the pity I had is gone; 
Because thou hast shamed me before both the 
hosts 

With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl’s 
wiles.’ 

He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, 


445 

450 

455 

[ 

460 

465 

470 


68 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


And he too drew his sword; at once they rush’d 

Together, as two eagles on one prey 

Come rushing down together from the clouds, 

One from the east, one from the west; their 
shields 

Dash’d with a clang together, and din 475 

Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 
Make often in the forest’s heart at morn, 

Of hewing axes, crashing trees—such blows 
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail’d. 

And you would 1 say that sun and stars took part 480 
In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud 
Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark’d the sun 
Over the fighters’ heads; and a wind rose 
Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, 

And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp’d the pair. 485 
In gloom they twain were wrapp’d, 41 and they 
alone; 

For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, 

And the sun sparkled 42 on the Oxus stream. 

But in the gloom they fought, 43 with bloodshot 

eyes 490 

And labouring breath; first Rustum struck the 
shield 

Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked 
slpear 

Rent the tough plates, but fail’d to reach the 
skin, 

And Rustum pluck’d it back with angry groan. 

41 This is a definite epic imitation, cf. Ilmd, III, 465 69; 
Aneid, I, 497-99; Faerie Queene, I, v. stanza 13. 

42 Again the stream reflects a mood—here in relief at the 
most intense moment of the tragedy. 

43 The next lines represent very rapid action, all objective 
in contrast to the representation of the state of mind of 
the heroes earlier recounted. 



Matthew Arnold 


69 


Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum’s 

helm, 495 

Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the 
crest 

He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, 
Never till now defiled, sank to the dust; 

And Rustum bow’d his head; but then the gloom 
Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, 500 
And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, 44 the 
horse, 

Who stood at hand, utter’d a dreadful cry:— 

No horse’s cry was that, most like the roar 
Of some pain’d desert-lion, who all day 
Hath trail’d the hunter’s javelin in his side, 505 
And comes at night to die upon the sand— 

The two hosts heard that cry, and quak’d for 
fear. 

And Oxus curdled 45 as it cross’d his stream. 

But Sohrab heard, and quail’d not, but rush’d on, 

And struck again; and again Rustum bow’d 510 
His head; but this time all the blade, like glass, 
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, 

And in the hand the hilt remain’d alone. 

Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes 
Glared, and he shook on high his menacing 

spear, 515 

And shouted Rustum Z 46 —Sohrab heard that 
shout, 

' 4 The horse is added to the background, cf. other scenes 
in which the sympathy of animal servants is depicted: 
Julius Caesar . I, iii; Iliad, Bk XIX; Numbers XXII. 

45 An example of “pathetic fallacy,” used here to suggest 
the complete sympathy between nature and the human 
actors, and to intensify the effect of the conflict. 

^This battle shout is an effective introduction to the 
scene which follows — the most powerful moment in the 
action. 



70 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


And shrank amaz’d: back he recoil’d one step, 
And scann’d with blinking eyes the advancing 


form; 

And then he stood bewilder’d, and he dropp’d 
His covering shield, and the spear pierc’d his 
side. 

He reel’d, and staggering back, sank to the 
ground; 

And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, 
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all 
The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair;— 
Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, 

And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. 

Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began:— 
‘Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill 
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab’s tent. 

Or else that the great Rustum would come down 
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move 
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 

And then that all the Tartar host would praise 
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 
To glad 47 thy father in hist weak old age. 

Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man! 
Dearer to the red jackals 48 shalt thou be 
Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.’ 

And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied:— 
‘Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. 
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man! 
No! Rustum slays 49 me, and this filial heart. 

For were I match’d with ten such men as thee, 
And I were that which till to-day I was, 


520 


525 


530 


535 


540 


545 


I7 What form of this verb would we use to-day? 

48 This expression of the conqueror is like the Philistine’s 
boast to David, “I will give thy flesh unto the fowls of the 
air, and to the beasts of the field.” I Sam. xvii, 44. 

49 In what sense? 



Matthew Arnold 


71 


They should be lying here, I standing there. 

But that beloved name unnerved my arm— 

That name, and something, I confess, in thee, 
Which troubles aH my heart, and made my shield 
Fall; and thy spear transfix’d .an unarm’d foe. 550 
And now thou boastest, and ihsult’st my fate. 

But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear; 

The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! 

My father, whom I seek through all the world, 

He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!’ 555 

As when some hunter 50 in the spring hath 
found 

A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, 

Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, 

And pierc’d her with an arrow as she rose, 

And follow’d her to find her where she fell 560 
Far off;—anon her mate comes winging back 
From hunting, and a great way off descries 
His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks 
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 565 

Chiding his mate back to her nest, but she 
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 

In some far stony gorge out of his ken, 

A heap of fluttering feathers—never more 
Shall the lake glass her, flying over it; 570 

Never the black and dripping precipices 
Echo her stormy screams as she sails by— 

As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, 

So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood 
Over his dying son, and knew him not. 575 

And, with a cold incredulous voice, he said:— 

“Compare this simile with others in the poem for beauty 
and richness of suggestion. 



72 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


'What prate is this of fathers 51 and revenge? 

The mighty Rustum never had a son/ 

And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:— 

‘Ah yes, he had! and that lost son.am I. 580 

sS-urely the news will one day reach his ear, 

Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, 
Somewhere, I know not where, but far from 
here; 

And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 
To arms, and cry for 1 vengeance upon thee. 585 
Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son! 

What will that grief, what will that vengeance 
be? 

Oh, could I live till I that grief ,had seen! 

Yet him I pity not so much, but her, 

My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells . 590 

With that old King, her father, who grows grey 
With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 

Her most I pity, who no more will see 
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, 

With spoils and honour, when the war is done. 595 
But a dark rumour will be bruited up, 52 
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; 

And then will that defenceless woman learn 
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more; 

But that in battle with a nameless foe, 600 

By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain/ 

He spoke; and as he ceas’d, he wept aloud, 
Thinking of her he left, and his own death. 

He spoke; 53 but Rustum listen’d, plunged in 
thought. 

51 From this point the dramatic solution is rapid and 
definite. 

“Noised abroad. Note the suggestion of how news 
travels. 

“This repetition is Homeric. 



Matthew Arnold 


73 


Nor did he yet believe it was his son 605 

Who spoke, although he call’d back names he 
knew; 

For he had had sure tidings 54 that the babe, 

Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, 

Had been a puny girl, no boy at all— 

So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 610 
Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms. 

And so he deem’d that either Sohrab took, 

By a false boast, the style 55 of Rustum’s son; 

Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 

So deem’d he; yet he listen’d, plunged in 
thought; 

And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore 
At the full moon; tears gather’d in his eyes; 

For he remember’d his own early youth, 58 
And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, 620 
The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries 
A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, 

Through many rolling clouds—so Rustum saw 
His youth; saw Sohrab’s mother, in her bloom; 

And that old king, her father, who loved well 625 
His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child 
With joy; and all the pleasant life they led, 

They three, in that long-distant summer-time— 

The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 

And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 630 

In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, 

Of age and looks to be his own dear son, 

“This exposition comes late. Is it essential, or did we 
know its facts before? 

55 Title. 

56 The next twenty lines add still further to our knowl¬ 
edge of the past—this part a pleasant picture of the young 
Rustum. 



74 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand, 

Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe 
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, 635 

Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, 

And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom. 

On the mown, dying grass—so Sohrab lay, 

Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 

And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and 

said:— 640 

‘0 Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have 
loved! 

Yet here thou errest, Sohralb, or else men 
Have told thee false—thou art not Rustum’s son. 

For Rustum had no son; one child 57 he had, 645 
But one— a girl; who with her mother now 
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us— 

Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war/ 

But Sohrab answer’d him in wrath; for now 
The anguish of the deep-fix’d spear grew fierce, 650 
And he desir’d to draw forth the steel, 

And let the blood flow free, and so to die— 

But first he would convince his stubborn foe; 

And, rising sternly on one arm, he said:— 

‘Man, who art thou who dost deny my words ? 655 
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, 58 
And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. 

I tell thee, prick’d 59 upon this arm I bear 
That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, 

57 Note how Rustum’s mind returns to this point. Why? 
58 Another aphoristic line. 

5<J In the Shah Nameh the identification came through an 
onyx amulet the youth wore. For Arnold’s purpose it was 
not necessary to have an object of supernatural force such 
as that stone which incited its wearer to valor. The moti¬ 
vation is more natural here, the means of identification 
more simple. 



Matthew Arnold 


75 


That she might prick it on the babe she bore.’ 660 
He spoke; and all the blood left Rustum’s 
cheeks, 

And his knees totter’d, and he smote his hand 
Against his breast, his neavy mailed hand, 

That the hard iron corslet clank’d aloud; 

And to his heart he press’d the other hand, 665 
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said:— 
‘Sohrab, that were a proof which could not 
lie! 

If thou show this, then art thou Rustum’s son.’ 

Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed 
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, 670 
And show’d a sign in faint vermilion points 
Prick’d; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, 

Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, 

An emperor’s gift—at early morn he paints, 

And all day long, and, when night comes, the 675 
lamp 

Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands: 

So delicately prick’d the sign appear’d 
On Sohrab’s arm, the sign of Rustum’s seal. 

It was that griffin, which of old rear’d Zal, 60 
Rustum’s great father, whom they left to die, 680 
A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks; 

Him that kind creature found, and rear’d, and 
loved— 

Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. 

And Sohrab bar’d that image on his arm, 

And himself scann’d it long with mournful 685 
eyes, 

And then he touch’d it with his hand, and 
said:— 

80 These lines refer to the story of Zal, reared by the 
griffin after he had been left to perish because he was 
born with white hair. 




76 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


‘How say’st thou? Is that sign the proper 
sign 

Of Rustum’s son, or of some other man’s?’ 

He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and 
stood 

Speechless; and then he utter’d one sharp cry: 

0 boy—thy father !—and his voice choked there. 

And then a dark cloud pass’d before his eyes, 

And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. 

But Sohrab crawl’d to where he lay, and cast 
His arms about his neck, and kiss’d his lips, 695 
And with fond 61 faltering fingers stroked his 
cheeks, 

Trying to call him back to life; and life 
Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, 

And they stood wide with horror; and he seized 
In both his hands the dust which lay around, 700 
And threw it on his head, 62 and smirch’d his 
hair,— 

His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering 
arms; 

And strong convulsive groanings shook his 
breast, 

And his sobs choked him; and he clutch’d his 
sword, 

To draw it, and for ever let life out. 705 

But Sohrab saw his thought, 63 and held his 
hands, 

And with a soothing voice he spake, and said:— 
‘Father, forbear ! for I but meet to-day 

61 Effective alliteration here and in the next line. 

62 In the Orient this custom is the expression for extreme 
grief. References abound in the Bible; a striking one is 
found in the Iliad Bk. XXII, 530-40 in Priam’s grief for his 
son Hector. 

63 Meaning? 



Matthew Arnold 


77 


The doom which at my birth was written 
down 64 

In Heaven, and thou art Heaven’s unconscious 710 
hand. 

Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, 

When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, 

I know it! but fate trod those promptings down 
Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged 
The strife, and hurl’d me on my father’s spear. 715 
But let us speak no more of this! I finu 
My father; let me feel that I have found! 

Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take 
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, 

And wash them with thy tears, and say: My son! 720 
Quick! quick! for number’d are my sands of life, 

And swift; for like the lightning to this field 
I came, and like the wind I go away— 

Sudden, and swift, like a passing wind; 

But it was writ in Heaven that this should be.’ 725 
So said he, and his voice released the heart 
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast 
His arms round his son’s neck, and wept aloud, 

And kiss’d him. And awe fell on both the hosts, 
When they saw Rustum’s grief; and Ruksh, 
the horse, 

With his head bowing to the ground, and mane 
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute 
woe 65 

First to the one then to the other moved 
His head, as if enquiring what their grief 
“These lines echo earlier ones which suggest man’s in¬ 
ability to escape his fate. 

65 Again animal sympathy for man in pain. It is empha¬ 
sized for dramatic effect, as a parallel situation is in the 
Iliad, Bk. IX; but we all have known cases less pro¬ 
nounced among our friends and their animal companions. 
Can you cite some*? 



78 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


Might mean; and from his dark, compassion- 735 
ate eyes, 

The big warm tears roll’d down, and caked the 
sand. 

But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and 
said:— 

‘Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, 0 Ruksh, thy 
feet 

Should first have rotted on their nimble joints, 
When first they bore thy master to this field!’ 740 
But Sohrab look’d upon the horse and said;— 

‘Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past days, 

My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, 

My terrible father’s terrible horse! and said, 

That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 745 
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane! 

O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I; 

For thou hast gone where I shall never go, 

And snuff’d the breezes of my father’s home. 

And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 66 750 

And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake 
Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself 
Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, 

Corn in a golden platter soak’d with wine, 

And said: 0 Ruksh , bear Rustum well !—but I 755 
Have never known my grandsire’s furrow’d 
face, 

Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 

Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund 
stream; 

But lodg’d among my father’s foes, and seen 


‘“The following lines illustrate the yearnings of the child 
to know places and characters and objects which are as¬ 
sociated with his hero-father. The passage of course is 
further exposition but Arnold makes it come naturally in¬ 
to the mind of the dying youth. 



Matthew Arnold 


79 


Afrasiab’s cities only, Samarcand, 760 

Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, 

And the black Toortmun tents; and only drunk 
The desert rivers: Moorghab and Tejend, 

Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, 

The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream, 765 
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.’ 

Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewail’d:— 

‘Oh, that its waves were flowing) over me! 

Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
Roll tumbling in the current o’er my head!’ 770 
But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab re¬ 
plied:— 

‘Desire not that, my father! thou must live. 

For some are born to do great deeds, and live, 

As somei are born to be obscur’d, and die. 

Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, 775 

And reap a second glory in thine age: 

Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 

But come! thou seest this great host of men 
Which follow me; I pray fhee, slay not these !“* 

Let me entreat for them: what have they done? 780 
They follow’d me, my hope, my fame, my star. 

Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 

But me thou must bear hence, not send with 
them, 

But carry me with thee to Seistan, 

And place me on a bed, and mourn for me, 785 
Thou, and the snow-hair’d Zal, and all thy 
friends. 

And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, 

And heap a stately mound above my bones, 

67 Can you cite other instances in which the dying leader 
begs of his conqueror the lives of his followers? It is a 
final touch of the heroic in the young man’s character. 
Rustum heeded his son’s request. 



80 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 

That so the passing horseman on the waste 790 
May see my tomb a great way off, and cry: 

Sohrab, the mighty Rustum’s son , lies there, 

Whom his great father did in ignorance kill! 

And I be not forgotten in my grave/ 

And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied:— 795 
‘Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, 

So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, 

And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me. 

And carry thee away to Seistan, 68 
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 800 
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends- 
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, 

And heap a stately mound above thy bones, 

And plant a far-seen pillar over all, 

And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. 805 
And I will spare thy host; yea, let them go! 

Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace! 

What should I do with slaying any more? 

For would that all that I have ever slain 
Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes, 810 
And they who were call’d champions in their 
time, 

And through whose death I won that fame I 
have— 

And I were nothing but a common man, 

A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, 

So thou mightest live too, my son, my son! 815 
Or rather would that I, even I myself, 

Might now be lying on this bloody sand, 

Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, 

Not thou of mine! and I might die, not thou; 

And I, not thou, be borne to iSeistan; 820 

68 Note the repetition. It has the quality of a Biblical 
chant here. 



Matthew Arnold 


81 


And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine; 

And say: 0 son, I weep thee not too sore, 

For willingly, I know, tnou met st thine end! 

But now in blood and battles was my youth, 

And full of blood and battles is my age, 825 

And I shall never end this life of blood.’ 

Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied:— 

‘A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man! 

But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now, 

Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day, 830 
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, 

Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, 

Returning home over the salt blue sea, 

From laying thy dear master in his grave.’ 

And Rustum gazed in Sohrab’s face, and 835 
said:— 

‘Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea! 

Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure.’ 

He spoke; and Sohrab smil’d on him, and took 
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased 
His wound’s imperious anguish; but the blood 840 
Came welling from the open gash, and life 
Flow’d with the stream;—all down his cold 
white side 

The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil’d, 

Like the soil’d tissue of white violets 
Left, freshly gather’d, on their native bank, 845 
By children whom their nurses call with haste 
Indoors from the sun’s eye; his head droop’d 
low, 

His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he 
lay— 

White, with eyes clos’d; only when heavy gasps, 

6U In the sense of one who inspires dread — the original 
meaning of the word. 



82 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 


Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his 850 
frame, 

Convuls’d him back to life, he open’d them, 

And fixed them feebly on his father’s face; 

Till now all strength was ebb’d, and from his 
limbs 

Unwillingly the spirit fled away, 

Regretting the warm mansion which it left, 855 
And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. 

iSo, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead: 

And the great Rustum drew his horseman’s cloak 
Down o’er his face, and sate by his dead son. 

As those black granite pillars, once high-rear’d 860 
By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 
His house, now mid their broken flights of steps 
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side— 

So, in the sand, lay Rustum by his son. 

And night 70 came down over the solemn waste, 865 
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, 

And darken’d all; and a cold fog, with night, 

Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, 

As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 

Began to twinkle through the fog; for now 870 

Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal; 

The Persians took it on the open sands 
Southward, the Tartars by the river marge; 

And Rustum and his son were left alone. 

But the majestic river floated on, 

Oiut of the mist and hum of that low land, 

Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, 
Rejoicing, through the hush’d Chorasmian waste, 

™As if the curtain were falling on the great drama. Life 
goes on—the larger world stirs with its old activity—but 
the victims of the conflict sit in lonely grief. Still there 
is strength and hope in the image of the mighty river mov¬ 
ing on as if to restore the balanced rhythm of life. 



Matthew Arnold 


83 


Under the solitary moon;—he flow’d 
Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, 

Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands 
begin 

To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, 

And split his currents; that for many a league 
The shorn and parcelPd Oxus strains along 
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles— 885 
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had 
In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, 

A foil’d circuitous wanderer—till at last 
The long’d-for dash of waves is heard, and 
wide 

His luminous home of waters opens, bright 890 
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed 
stars 

Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 


Suggestions to Teachers 

Objectives. The objectives in teaching these narra¬ 
tive poems, one a literary ballad and the other a short 
epic, are to see that each pupil knows and values these 
units. To know them and to value them, the pupils 
will have to comprehend them as wholes, and then in 
parts or details as seems wise to the teacher, consider¬ 
ing the time allowed for the study and the age and 
capacity of the pupils. A child can be taught to 
understand the general large aspects of a poem, where 
an adult, or a teacher, or a poet can see much more 
in the way of technical detail and the criticism of life. 
Any child, however, to use a figure of speech, can 
be taught that the way to judge an apple is not alone 
by its outside appearance, but also by its taste, or 
by cutting into it. A good apple has no rotten spots 
and no moulded core. A good poem is good down 
to the last bite. The poems printed here will bear 
the test. Rapid reading will show the outside ap¬ 
pearance ; slow reading and study will reveal that 
these poems are good through and through. 

Methods. Provide a careful, interesting approach. 
Prepare the soil before you sow the seed. Some pre¬ 
liminary talk about the difference between traditional 
ballads and imitative or literary ballads will provide 
an approach to the understanding of The Ancient 
Mariner. Place the poem in the history of lyrical 
poetry (Lyrical Ballads , 1798). And place it in the 
history of balladry (Percy’s Reliques, 1765, started 
a movement). Some adult may explain to you or 
for the class why he likes the work of Coleridge. 
A friend told the writer that a gift book, an illus¬ 
trated copy of The Ancient Mariner, influenced 
him to read and read again this story. 

For Sohrab and Rustum, a little discussion of 
[84] 


Suggestions to Teachers 


85 


epic poetry may provide an interesting approach. 
The epic often begins in the middle of a story. The 
characters are noble, the deeds worthy, the expressions 
serious and dignified. The similes and metaphors 
are classical in form; they are drawn from the very 
stuff of the story. The setting, the plot and the 
characters may be noted separately, but comparison 
will show that these elements work in harmony to¬ 
gether. 

Outlining. A good way to master the contents of 
a long poem is to outline it. The effort of using a 
pen and paper will assist the memory. Moreover, 
outlining will reveal the coherence and movement of 
the poem as well as the unity and the climax. It 
will be evident to those who analyze or outline these 
poems, that they obey many of the laws of story 
or play, and to the pupils, the comparison in struc¬ 
ture may be interesting and profitable. 

Details. The study of details is like looking at an 
object with a microscope. In life, the masses of us 
have no time for microscopic study. In school, we 
often try to provide a little time for that. You may 
consider that your class is not capable of much study 
of details. If you do try to have the class see the 
trees as well as the wood, before you leave the for¬ 
est entirely, take one last look at the wood in per¬ 
spective. That is, after you analyze, synthesize, re¬ 
view the general impression. 

Enjoyment. We all enjoy good stories. We sense 
the objective of a story, the forward movement, the 
pictures along the way, the tests imposed upon the 
characters, and many technical matters. We like 
to hear stories read by those who do appreciate the 
stories themselves, those who can bring out with 


86 


Suggestions to Teachers 


the voice fine shades of meaning. Read aloud, vis¬ 
ualize the pictures, watch for the poet’s own com¬ 
ment, memorize good quotations. 

Conclusion. If you, teacher, have an opportunity 
to teach these poems to children who are reading 
them for the first time, we congratulate you. You 
have a pleasant task before you. Your work is well 
worth while. 


The General Editors. 





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